


Starbucks Run

by FreyaOdin



Series: Blink Outtakes [2]
Category: Pentatonix, Superfruit
Genre: Coffee Shops, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 21:37:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11791968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaOdin/pseuds/FreyaOdin
Summary: A failed plotline outtake from my Scomiche AU Blink. Scott and Mitch walk to Starbucks after their nap in Finally, instead of having their coffee delivered.This won't make sense if you haven't read Blink





	Starbucks Run

**Author's Note:**

> At one point (i.e. for the entirety of several months), I was futzing around trying to decide how the 2nd last chapter would go. I had a basic list of what still needed to happen in the story, but was exploring various ways of getting there. This is one of those failed attempts. A very, very failed attempt.
> 
> Set after post-sex nap in Finally:

 

Mitch suggests they walk to get their coffee, after they're dressed and Scott's got his sling back on. It's a good idea because a) Scott is desperately in need of rebuilding his endurance and promised his new PT he'd start some gentle cardio, and b) he doesn't have to be at the studio until three for his recording session, so he'll have plenty of time to rest after they get back.

The fact that he still has to make sure he has time in his schedule for a  _recovery nap_  before deciding to walk fifteen minutes for coffee is fucking ridiculous, but yay this is his life now.

As usual, there are a few people ahead of them when they get to Starbucks. Scott concentrates on reading the menu, even though he's had it memorized for years, because it makes it easier to avoid acknowledging the woman not-so-surreptitiously aiming her phone in their direction. He still doesn't know how best to handle stealth pics; he either smiles and thus encourages it or he asks them to stop and gets painted as an ungrateful asshole. It's no-win, every time, so he just pretends not to see them.

He does wish she and her friends would just come over and say hi, if they have to do anything at all, instead of creepily stalking them though.

Mitch is dealing with it similarly, except he's scrolling through his phone instead of staring stupidly at the menu.

The line moves steadily forward. It's not that long and it's moving pretty fast, but that doesn't stop the guy in front of them–thirtyish, bland haircut, boring suit–from shifting back and forth on his feet while ranting loudly into his phone and checking his stupidly shiny watch fourteen times in the three and a half minutes it takes for him to reach the front of the line.

"What can I get you?" the teenager behind the counter asks him.

"No, I said a trailing stop of  _twenty_ percent, not fifteen! Fuck, that's going to screw us." He doesn't even pull the phone away from his mouth before saying "Venti soy quad shot latte, extra hot, no foam" in one of the least polite tones Scott has ever heard.

Mitch snorts. "When you're only in a hurry because it makes you look important," he whispers, not at all quietly. "Because otherwise you wouldn't order a drink that takes forever to try to make just to be a dick."

Scott stifles a laugh as the guy turns around–still aggressively ranting into his phone–and eyes them up and down before obviously dismissing them as not worth his time. He hands the cashier a ten, gets back his change, and doesn't even glance at the tip jar before striding to the other end of the counter to wait for his drink.

"God," Mitch says, no longer whispering, as he steps up to the cash. "He might have just turned me off soy lattes forever. How is that possible?"

"You're getting yours iced," Scott points out. "Completely different. Also you're not a douche who'd ask for no foam on an extra hot."

"Solid point." Mitch smiles sweetly at the cashier and proceeds to be excruciatingly pleasant as he orders their drinks.

Scott's torn between laughing at the dazed expression on the poor kid's face and wholeheartedly agreeing with him. That smile is a  _weapon_.

By the time they finish ordering and head for the pickup station, Dickhead has hung up on whoever he was talking to and is now drumming his fingers on the counter, glowering at the poor barista trying to scrape off all the foam and then pour without including much of what remains.

She delivers it a moment later, only for him to peer down at it and snarl "There's foam in this."

"There's a little, yes," the barista concedes. "The milk is heated by blowing hot air through it, so the hotter you want it, the harder it is to–"

"Look, sweetheart," Dickhead interrupts, and Scott winces at both the tone and the chauvinism. "Do you know who I am?"

Scott rolls his eyes. Has that arrogant bullshit ever helped in the history of ever? Regardless of who the person is? Not to mention that  _Scott_  has no idea who he is, so he's not sure why the barista is expected to.

Mitch, meanwhile, scoffs loudly and then switches to a breathless, airy tone. "Wow, he must be the most famous person in the whole damn coffee shop right now," he says, placing his hand on Scott's free forearm like he's about to be overcome. "Be still my inner fangirl."

The table with the woman who was taking a creep pic all start snickering.

Scott laughs too, he can't even help it. "Maybe we're second then? Wait, which one of us is more famous? This is important; I want my drink made better than yours."

"Depends on what metric we use, I guess." Mitch frowns in concentration, pursing his lips. "You're probably more immediately recognizable than I am, what with being ten feet tall and never shutting up."

Nice. "Wow. Okay, also I don't change my hairstyle and entire wardrobe every five minutes, so people can recognize me week to week."

Mitch reaches up and runs his fingers through his own still-super-short hair. "Drag me. Hmm. Maybe something more objective? Ticket sales?"

"Think we're tied."

"Grammys?"

"Still tied." Scott glances at Dickhead, enjoying the deepening red his face is turning.

He refocuses on Mitch just in time to see him put his hand to his chin in imitation of the pondering emoji. "YouTube subscribers? Ugh, tied there too. Oh, I have this side channel thing going too, so—wait, no. That doesn't help either."

Scott smirks. "Twitter followers."

Mitch wrinkles his nose—although that might be more due to the ungodly screeching noise coming from the soy milk the barista is currently steaming than Scott's game-winning stat—and pulls out his phone. "I was catching up but then you had to go and make everyone worried about you and pine over your every subsequent tweet." He brings up his own and then Scott's profile. "You still have less than a hundred thousand more followers than me."

Scott reaches over and tilts the phone so he can see it too. "I'd phrase that that as  _almost_  a hundred thousand more followers than you."

Mitch hums, disgruntled. "You follow ten times as many people. Maybe we should go with ratio instead."

Oh no, he doesn't. "I shouldn't be punished just because I'm more approachable."

"Uh uh," Mitch says, shaking his head. "I'd phrase that as more  _excitable_."

Scott grins and looks up to see how their coffee is progressing and if the arrogant jerk has left yet. It isn't because he hasn't, although it looks like that's about to change. Dickhead is accepting his remade coffee without even looking at it or acknowledging the barista, because he's too busy glaring at Scott and Mitch.

Oops. They've offended him. Isn't that just too bad?

Scott gives him a thin, fake smile and looks back down at Mitch's phone, content to keep their bickering going. "Maybe we should go with a followers to number of tweets ratio, because that looks even bet—"

Looking away turns out to be a mistake because as the jerk is leaving, he bashes his shoulder into Scott on the way by.

It's the type toxic dominance display that Scott's fully capable of, has in fact done before, but only when some misogynistic and/or homophobic asshole in a club needs to be put down by someone his tiny lizard brain can respect. If this had happened three months ago, Scott would have snorted and rolled his eyes. Maybe followed it up with a "Fuck you too,  _bro_ " if it had made him spill his coffee.

Now, however, he's not doing any of those things because he's too busy collapsing and trying not to scream.

"Hey!" Mitch yells. "What the fuck? Hey!"

Scott isn't aware of much except the flaring pain. He can vaguely feel Mitch catching him, grunting with effort as he slows his fall. They end up on the floor, Mitch behind and partially underneath him. Fuck. He hopes he didn't hurt him; Mitch is wiry and stronger than he looks but Scott outweighs him by like fifty pounds.

Scott is struggling to process anything else. He can hear groaning and the occasional harsh gasp for air and assumes that's him, but honestly he's not really sure.

"Fuck. Fucking asshole," Mitch snarls near Scott's ear. "I can't believe— fuck, breathe baby. I've got you. C'mon Scotty, breathe."

Breathing is overrated. Whimpering is pretty fantastic though.

Mitch starts counting to five softly and by this point Scott can't even help trying to match his inhalations to it. He wonders, slightly hysterically, just how deeply the habit is now engrained in his subconscious. Will Mitch still be able to trigger the response when they're old and wrinkly and Scott's in the middle of a heart attack because some asshole of a boy is hitting on their granddaughter?

Not that he's getting ahead of himself or anything. Still, the distraction is nice.

"Is he okay?" an alto voice asks—the barista maybe?—breaking into Scott's increasingly insane thoughts.

"Does he look okay to you?" Mitch snaps. His hand is soothing down the good side of Scott's neck though, the gentle touch a sharp contrast to the harshness of his tone.

"Sorry," the girl says. "Stupid question. I meant will he be okay or do you want me to call an ambulance or something?"

"No,  _I'm_  sorry," Mitch says, after taking a deep breath of his own. "This isn't your fault. And I don't know yet."

"No ambulance," Scott manages to get out.

**And this is the point where I realize that not only is this a melodramatic mess, but it also derails the entire plot: Scott will have to spend the rest of the day at the hospital getting assessed and probably scanned to see if anything is drastically wrong (meaning 8 years of research for me as I try to figure out exactly what would need to happen), which means they'll never make it to the studio. And it'll impact all future chapters because the creep photography means that at least one person caught the whole thing on camera and it's probably already on twitter, and between that and the security cameras, Dickhead will likely be caught and Scott will have to press assault charges and there will be more press and another fandom blowup, and and and...**

**And I decide it's not salvageable. Eventually they film a Superfruit episode instead and Mitch has the damn coffee delivered.**

**Thoughts?**


End file.
